I was gone.
Lost in a fog I couldn’t even begin to work my way through.
Feeling torn, pulled in two different directions, as though caught in the middle of some crazy, invisible tug-of-war, with no way of knowing who pulled at my strings, much less which side I should favor.
“Aurelia? You okay?” Messalina leaned toward me, her face a mask of concern.
Aurelia. That was me. That’s what everyone called me.
Or was it? I was no longer sure.
Messalina placed a finger under my chin and lifted it toward hers as she gazed directly into my eyes. Fussing at my hair, pretending to rearrange a stray curl, she brushed a cool finger across the width of my brow—the feel of her touch instantly lifting the fog, allowing the sun to break through, as everything sprang back into view.
“Are you okay?” she repeated, her gaze fixed on mine.
I gazed all around, taking in the enormity of the arena, the tens of thousands of cheering spectators—sure that each and every one of them would do anything to trade places with me. Sure that each and every one of them longed to claim a place among such luxury and comfort—surrounded by mountains of food, an endless supply of drink, keeping company with rich and entitled Roman nobility—not to mention the insanely cute boy who sat right beside me.
I returned my gaze to hers, my voice filled with the extent of my gratitude when I said, “Everything’s great. Everything’s just absolutely perfect. And I have you to thank.”
11
I watched the procession that marked the start of the games in confusion. Surprised by the way the crowd remained strangely quiet, almost solemn, until Dacian explained how that would soon change. It was merely the official portion of the day, he told me. The time when weapons were inspected, a dead emperor was remembered, and the gladiators were all introduced—allowing the crowd a chance to take them all in, knowing full well that by the day’s end more than half of them would never stand again.
When it was over, the gates dragged open once more, setting a pack of ferocious jungle cats loose in the arena. At first roaring in fear, unsure what to make of their new surroundings, it wasn’t long before they adapted, their instincts kicked in, and they busied themselves with stalking their prey—devouring one poor, unfortunate prisoner after another.
The crowd cheered in response, stomping and clapping in glee as they watched a succession of people get shredded and gutted and ripped into small, bloodied bits—pitted in a fight they could never, ever win.
That same cheering failing to cease when those very same cats were later hunted and killed by gladiators who specialized in such skills.
Until finally—after hours of unrelenting blood and gore—after hours of watching unfathomable death and violence—it was time for the gladiators to take center stage. And I found myself so desensitized by that point, so completely unshakable, it wasn’t long before I became as entranced as any other spectator—cheering and jeering right along with them.
Giving thumbs up whenever a battle was tied, and I found both parties worthy of living—giving thumbs down when I wasn’t entertained quite enough, when I demanded someone be held accountable for the lack of amusement—to die a grisly death to atone for my boredom.
Sometimes shouting, “Live!” other times shouting, “Kill!” depending on my mood. I was consumed with the power I held. Aware that I was only one among many, that in the end, it was the emperor’s decision to grant life or death, and yet, was he not bound to the whims of his subjects? Was he not swayed by their need to be appeased from the drudgery of their lives with a show of bread and circus?
I reveled in being part of that decision, in knowing my vote helped to decide just who was allowed to live another day—and just who was sentenced to die.
And when the heavy iron gates swung wide once again, and Theocoles thundered into the arena, it quickly became clear why he was so favored.
Theocoles didn’t walk, neither did he run, but rather he strutted, sauntered—arms raised high above his head, his sword and shield waving in acknowledgment of his fifty thousand most admiring fans, leaving no doubt that he loved them, just as much as they loved him.
The stadium practically shaking with the rumble of stomping feet and clapping hands, I watched as Theocoles turned, acknowledging every section of the stadium, circling the wave of praise much as the earth circles the warmth of the sun.
The applause significantly dimming when his opponent, Urbicus, entered to a chorus of hisses and boos—and though he appeared equally strong, equally fierce, equally determined to hold up his end—it was clear from the start that he lacked the innate fire and charisma of the champion gladiator, and because of it, the crowd would never be swayed to his side. He just couldn’t compete with Theocoles’ unique brand of magnetism—his deadly combination of bravery, skill, showmanship, and undeniable movie star appeal.
Much like everyone around me, I slid to the edge of my seat, watching in fascination, captivated as the battle began. Urbicus put up a very good fight, though not good enough—he spent most of his energy deflecting Theocoles’ well-aimed blows that left him so bloodied and battered, his strength quickly seeped out of him, while Theocoles waged on, his own wounds appearing shallow and superficial at most.
Despite his rival’s weakening state—despite Theocoles’ numerous chances to lead Urbicus to his final rest—the battle waged on, and on, and on—with Theocoles refusing to end it, determined to give the crowd what they came for, and more. He continued to pounce, and leap, and inflict wound after gaping wound upon his victim until Urbicus’ skin resembled a fringe of blood-soaked ribbons.
I watched in a combination of amazement and revulsion, wondering at which point Theocoles would decide to end it so he could collect his winnings, thereby freeing his brother, himself. Yet I was so caught up in the spectacle, I dreaded the moment it would end.
I leaned into Dacian, so overcome with excitement and nerves, too busy watching Theocoles slice his opponent to shreds, it was a moment before I noticed our shoulders were pressed snugly together.
“Why doesn’t he just kill him already and get it over with, so he can claim his victory?” I asked.
My gaze darting between Dacian and the arena, suddenly aware that he’d taken my hand, laced his fingers with mine as he said, “Worried about Theocoles, are you?” His voice teased at my ear as he leaned even closer. “Not to worry—he’s just doing what he does best. He’s playing the crowd. He’s giving us the show that he’s known for, and it hasn’t failed him yet.” He motioned toward the arena, where Theocoles, having removed his studded steel helmet and tossed it aside, shook his long, shaggy hair in acknowledgment of his tens of thousands of roaring fans. “He’s addicted to the applause. Needs it as much as a flower needs rain. He knows this is it. He’s all too aware that after today he’ll never again claim center stage. They’ll talk about him for a while, recount each move of his victory, but soon enough their attentions will begin to wane, just like they always do. And, once that happens, it won’t be long until the memory of Theocoles fades into oblivion, as another champion rises up in his place. And, despite what Messalina prefers to think, one day the great champion, the Pillar of Doom, will be reduced to nothing more than a ghost of a memory, with no lasting proof that he ever existed. I’m sure on some level, Theocoles is all too aware of that, and so, it’s for that very reason that he’s determined to milk it—to glean all from this moment that he possibly can.”
“Milk it?” I peered at Dacian, struggling to decide why I was so struck by the phrase, especially with all the other things that were happening. A boy was holding my hand! There was major bloodshed in the arena! Still, his words nudged at me, they just didn’t blend, didn’t quite mesh with the kinds of words he usually used.
Dacian looked at me. Assuming I didn’t understand its meaning, he said, “I mean he wants to seize the moment—he wants to squeeze it for all that it’s worth. Much as one might squeeze a goat’s udder for i
ts milk—”
“Got it,” I said, stealing a chance to remove my hand from his. I was suddenly jumpy, testy, something nudging at the edge of my memory, though I had no idea what it could be, no idea why I was feeling that way.
The crowd roared, dragging my attention back to the arena, eager to catch up on all that I’d missed. Watching as Theocoles loped around its perimeter, sword and shield outstretched to either side—proving that, once again, Dacian was right. Theocoles loved the adulation. Thrived on it from what I could see. He was definitely milking it, to be sure. He wouldn’t go easily.
I glanced around the box, noting how, just like me, everyone else was on the edge of their seats, including the emperor who’d pushed aside his heaping platter of wine and grapes in order to direct his full attention to the games, while Messalina’s uncle, the owner of the ludus, the owner of Theocoles, stood off to his side, mumbling a long stream of words under his breath that I couldn’t quite hear.
Though when I looked at Messalina, I couldn’t help but notice how her reaction differed from the rest. While everyone else was in full-on nail-biting mode, she’d already turned away, refusing to look. Despite the fact that aside from Lucius and Theocoles, she had the most riding on the outcome.
Though a moment later when Dacian reached for my hand, the thought slipped away. The only thing I was conscious of was the tentative way his fingers laced with mine as his face veered close, then closer still as he said, “He’s getting ready. It’s almost over. And trust me, you will not want to miss this.”
We rose to our feet, everyone did. A crowd of people all pushing forward, straining to get a better look as Theocoles finally turned his back on the crowd and approached his severely wounded opponent, who, despite the grave condition he was in, despite the fact that he could barely gather enough strength to stand, refused to fall. All too aware that imminent death was well on its way, he was determined to die nobly, bravely, a death worthy of a gladiator. He would not give in without one final fight.
“Kill!” I yelled, following the lead of the crowd, my thumb pointing down as did Dacian’s beside me. The word shouted over and over again in one long, rhythmic chant—the soundtrack of a bloodthirsty crowd.
Theocoles turned, letting us know he’d acknowledged the word, and that he planned to oblige us at the first sign of the emperor’s bidding.
But while Theocoles was facing us, his opponent had taken the opportunity to regroup, to make one last stab at victory, or at least die trying.
Stumbling forward, he used whatever remaining strength he had to take one last, wild swing with his blade. Its sharp, pointed edge clipping Theocoles at the back of his knees where it sliced wide and deep. Causing him to stagger, to sag toward the sand, his sword and shield having slipped from his fingers, abandoned at his side.
His hands grasped at the air as he tilted erratically, body swaying, face bearing an expression of unmistakable shock when he found himself falling, collapsing, his once celebrated form no more than a bloody, lame heap.
The crowd hushed into a strange, eerie silence, needing a moment to adapt to such an unexpected turn of events, as I did the same. My hand clamped over my mouth, unable to believe what I saw unfolding before me, vaguely aware of Dacian sliding a comforting arm around my waist.
We moved forward, rushed to the edge of the box, as did everyone around us—Rome’s finest all bunched up together, eyes bulging, necks craning, eager to see what terrible, unexpected thing might happen next.
Theocoles struggled to rise, but his wounds were too deep, his muscles now sliced in half were no longer working. He fell onto his back, staring in complete disbelief as his battered and bloodied opponent towered over him with his sword raised high, ready, willing, waiting for that one simple word that would allow him to claim certain victory by plunging it deep into Theocoles’ throat.
Not expecting Theocoles to turn, to use whatever strength he had left to roll onto his side—his eyes frantically searching for Messalina’s—longing to apologize, to say a final good-bye.
That one single look containing so much longing, so much meaning, so much regret, I couldn’t stop the crystalline tears that rolled down my cheeks.
But the crowd failed to see what I saw.
They misread the whole thing.
Knowing only that Theocoles had turned his back on his opponent, they mistook his final good-bye for an act of cowardice.
Furious to learn that the man they once held as their hero was neither noble enough, nor brave enough, to face his own death (an act that could not, would not be tolerated—an act that went against everything a gladiator stood for), they were quick to turn against him.
Tens of thousands of mouths that just a moment ago had hung silent in shock, were now fueled with revenge, shouting the verdict of: “Kill!” over and over again.
The demand so overwhelming, so all consuming, the emperor was quick to nod his consent.
The crowd pressed tighter, causing my head to grow foggy as I gasped for each breath. Swallowing mouthfuls of air only to realize I didn’t exhale.
I had no need of it—no need to breathe.
A vague awareness of something tugging at the edge of my memory—something about me—about Theocoles—though I had no idea what it could be.
While my fellow Romans were absorbed with the arena, eager to see the mighty Theocoles, the Pillar of Doom, meet his end, I turned toward Messalina, looking for guidance, hoping she might be able to tell me why I was no longer dependent on air.
But Messalina was gone. And as I stared hard at the space where she stood, the fog cleared, and I was sprung from my trance.
12
I slipped away from Dacian, pushed past the Roman nobles standing before me, and leaped as high as I could. Immune to the sound of Dacian’s frantic voice calling out from behind me, I gripped the sides of my gown, bunched it up in my hands, and hurtled right over the edge of the box. Landing on the shoulders of a startled, and not so happy toga-clad man, I evaded his angry, outstretched hands, and found my way to the ground. Winding my way to the center of the arena where I glanced between a headless Theocoles lying prone on the sand, and the completely intact, somewhat filmier version that stood alongside him, staring down at his former body in a mixture of loss and confusion.
“Theocoles.” I tugged hard on his hand, knowing I had to move fast. I had no idea where Messalina might’ve gone, but I could only assume she wouldn’t stay gone for too long. “Theocoles, please, you’ve got to listen to me. You’ve got to realize that you’re dead. It’s over. The battle was lost and there is no going back. And while I’m truly sorry for what happened to you, while I’m truly sorry that you had to go in such a totally gruesome, violent way, it’s time for you to put all of that behind you and move on. There’s a better place for you—a much better place, where you truly belong. And if you’ll just allow me to—”
He turned toward me, his deep topaz eyes staring hard into mine, as though he really did see me, as though he really did hear me—and while my face beamed with victory, I decided to save the celebration for later. First, I had to see this thing through.
“Who is that?” he asked, his voice like a whisper as he gazed down at his poor mangled body.
“It’s you,” I told him, my voice equally soft, sympathetic, knowing firsthand just how shocking it can be to see such a thing, to make the transition between life and death. “That’s what happened to your body. And while I’m truly sorry for that, as you can see, the most essential part of you continues to exist. It’s not over for you, Theocoles, not even close.”
He moved toward his corpse, kneeling beside it as I did the same. Though unlike him, I did my best not to look at it, and I definitely didn’t touch it like he did—it was way too gruesome to even consider. I may have been enthralled with all the blood and gore when I was Aurelia, but returned to myself, I was not only grossed out, but deeply ashamed by the way I’d gotten so easily sucked in—the way I’d so eagerly shouted “
Live!” and “Kill!” along with the rest of them. I promised myself I wouldn’t let that happen again.
I mean, seriously, it was pretty much the kind of thing you see in horror movies—the kind of movies that, when I was alive anyway, I was forbidden to watch. My parents assuring me that I was too young, that I’d be haunted by nightmares, and yet, since the moment I became a Soul Catcher I’d been forced to witness all manner of grisly, gory gruesomeness—the kind of stuff that pushed my gag reflex beyond all reasonable limits.
That’s it, I thought. As soon as this business with Theocoles is over, I’m scheduling a nice, long talk with the Council about more age-appropriate assignments!
Though it was only a second later when I remembered how I found myself there—I was the one who practically begged for more difficult Soul Catches.
“Be careful what you wish for,” my mom used to say. And when I gazed down at the disgusting, headless body before me I knew it was true.
Theocoles turned away from his corpse and gazed after his opponent. Watching as Urbicus was practically dragged from the arena, left in such a sorry state I couldn’t help but think he was moments away from meeting his own afterlife.
“And what becomes of him?” Theocoles mumbled, almost as though speaking to himself.
I glanced between the two of them, shrugging as I said, “He’ll succumb to his own death eventually. And from the looks of it, I’d guess sooner rather than later. In the end, no matter how hard we may try to avoid it, all of us go. The body is temporary, but the soul never dies.”
I sat back in surprise, realizing that for probably the first time ever, my words didn’t contain even a trace of the grudge I once used to hold over my own early demise. I was just stating the facts as I knew them, without any of my usual animosity. I’d finally reached the point where I no longer took my death personally.
“Where are the roses?” he asked, brows merging in confusion as he glanced from the crowd to the sand that, instead of the flowers he was used to, was scattered with chunks of skin and blood, and gawd knows what else. “They always throw roses. The crowd loves me and that’s how they show their love for me. They shower me with rose petals, thousands and thousands of red rose petals that I collect in my hands and crush into my palms, so that I can carry the scent back into the barracks with me and relive the memory.”